


The Appliance of Charm

by monobuu



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alfred is an idiot, Alternate Universe - Human, Arthur is grumpy, Costumes, Crack, M/M, Office Sex, Office Trope, Sexy Times, so much crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 11:04:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 20,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7434397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monobuu/pseuds/monobuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred Jones, PA extraordinaire, is on a mission to get a coffee machine. The only obstacle in his way is one very British, tea-loving boss. [written for the kink meme]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for any bastardization of British slang and my horrible abuse of run-on sentences.

To all the peons in the lower ranks of Kirkland Publishing, Arthur Kirkland, resident tyrant and technical president, was a shadowy figure of mystery at best. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that the entirety of their lives at work, and even outside work at times, was governed and ruled by this man. There was very little that they did or said that _didn't_ reach his ears and everything they accomplished was to please him and him alone. Sure their department managers might give them assignments, tell them what to do and manage their accomplishments and fuckups, but it was clear to all that Mr. Kirkland was the true puppet master of everything that went on within the company.  
  
And rightly so. It was his company, after all.  
  
At the same time, almost no one had actually _seen_ the man, let alone spoken to him at any length. There was a small group of employees that were entirely convinced that the man was a robot, created by the late Archibald Kirkland to pose as his son and therefore take over after his passing; the perfect creation that never stopped working, never rested, and was constantly creating new ways to make the company more successful so that it could, eventually, take over the world. Since that's what robots did, generally speaking. Most thought this group was a little off the reservation and, as Vash liked to point out, Arthur's father's name was Roger, not Archibald _(even though Archibald was, even Vash had to admit, a much more impressive name if you were intending to attach villainy to his list of character traits)_.  
  
It was rumored that Elizabeta Héderváry, from accounting, had glimpsed the unruly blond hair of their elusive president from over the top of a certain cubicle stationed near the elevators on the second floor, but Roderich Edelstein, head manager of the Public Relations department, had it on good authority that she'd made the whole thing up. For a week in December, Yong Soo, an intern from the local college, had implied that he'd in fact _met_ Mr. Kirkland, that they'd had a five and a half minute conversation while using the sixth floor men's restroom and that Mr. Kirkland had actually admitted that Yong Soo was responsible for the creation of the publishing industry. No one believed him.  
  
Gilbert Beilschmidt had claimed he'd seen the president at the local bar, that they'd gotten absolutely piss-drunk shit-faced together and had almost had an illicit affair before they'd passed out. His brother Ludwig, junior in age but senior at work, insisted that he'd actually made out with a mop in the broom closet of a restaurant after having one too many appletinis. Gilbert had then argued that appletinis _were not girly_ , and even if they were, that he'd only been drinking them to prove a point.  
  
Long story short, nobody below the seventh floor of the publishing building ever saw or heard Arthur Kirkland, even if they'd been working at his company longer than he'd been running it. There were actually only a handful of people who saw Arthur with any sort of regularity, and they were mostly the people who helped him manage the company twice a week during meetings, if Arthur bothered showing up at all.  
  
With the exception of one person, however: The Personal Assistant.   
  
Many of the people working within the company had applied for this position, as had a plethora of grad students, interns, and other applicants with varying levels of competency. It was a coveted position in the company, one that would provide a good deal of opportunities to the applicant once they'd gained enough experience, a platform for their ideal job, whatever that may be. Mr. Kirkland had just recently acquired a replacement for this position, held by one Aiden Kirkland until a couple weeks ago, and there had been a large cloud of gloom hovering over the first six floors once the Chosen One had been announced and it hadn't been anyone within the company. There had been enough applications sent in to fill an entire cubicle, but the victor had turned out to be a young American who hadn't even been _in London_ at the time.   
  
Rumor had it he went by the name of Alfred Jones.


	2. Chapter 2

Alfred Jones had little experience in the world of publishing, literature or books in general. Don't get him wrong, he'd read a few - mostly science fiction that surrounded around space ships and alien attacks and whatnot. You know, the good ones. He'd never worked in an office setting either, making his way through college with a variety of jobs ranging from cafeteria cook to coffee house barista; he'd even modeled for the art students a couple times, because he made bank off those people and there had been once class in particular who'd kept requesting his return. But his father was in much the same business as Arthur Kirkland and so Alfred was confident that he could do a decent job. After all, he was basically just a glorified errand boy, and really, how hard could keeping track of some rich guy's schedule be?  
  
And after two weeks of employment, Alfred could say that he had pretty much sized Arthur Kirkland up. He was stubborn, bitchy when he didn't get his tea, possibly telepathic, completely capable of killing someone, really bad with small animals, and entirely convinced that the world at large was incompetent. He drank five cups of tea every day, each at precise times of the day. He skipped lunch altogether, usually had a completely insufficient amount of food for dinner and was thus so skinny as to make Alfred question his health.   
  
He had hair that was completely and utterly unwilling to lay flat and Arthur seemed to have come to terms with it long ago; he was also apparently unconcerned with the abrupt and obvious contrast it painted against the rest of his finely selected, matched and pressed wardrobe. He smoked one pack of cigarettes a day, two if he was frustrated with something or, more often, some _one_. And given the amount of times he'd come to work with what Alfred could only describe as a hangover the size of Russia, the American could only assume the man had a habit of drinking hard liquor in large quantities, and that he wasn't intimidated by the fact that he had to go into work the next morning.   
  
“Alfred, I'm expecting a call from Carriedo this morning. When he calls, just put him through to my office; I don't want another incident like last time.”  
  
Incident meaning the time Alfred had attempted to speak with Antonio in what little Spanish he could remember from high school. After all, Arthur kept telling him he was culturally unaware or, when the Englishman was too lazy to dress it up with flowery words, a complete _dunce_ when it came to anything _not American_. Alfred had taken obligatory offense to that comment, but had also immediately attempted to rectify it, lest his boss lay into him again. And besides, Alfred was fairly certain the laid back Spaniard hadn't given a good goddamn whether Alfred's grammer was impeccable or not. _(Unlike a certain stodgy Englishman.)_  
  
But Alfred let it go and nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said, grabbing a sticky note and scribbling down a reminder. Arthur paused for a long moment, but when Alfred finished and glanced back up at him, he moved on to his office with quick strides.  
  
Alfred watched him go. Arthur's office had doors, two large ones that swung inward, but he rarely closed them. Alfred's desk was set up outside of the doors and to the right, far enough away so that the angle of the wall blocked his view of everything except Arthur's small couch and table. If he leaned forward, he could just make out the corner of Arthur's marble desk and the pen holder that sat there. He could generally decipher Arthur's mood on any given day by counting the pens that remained inside the cup and the colors of those pens. Today, for instance, there were three blue pens, two green, five black and a pencil. The four red pens were all absent, which meant Arthur was marking the shit out of everything on his desk with the harshest color he could find and it was therefore advisable not to disturb him.  
  
There was another desk across from the American's on the other side of the doors, the view from which was even more limited than Alfred's, but no one occupied it presently. He'd heard from Aiden that the spot had once been her, and therefore Arthur's, sister's desk. But she'd decided to leave the company to become a painter and it had yet to find another owner. Aiden herself had left to pursue other interests, but she had managed to convince Arthur that he couldn't very well handle all his calls, appointments and scheduling by himself. So he'd grudgingly agreed to hire Alfred.  
  
There was a small room just beyond this empty desk, which held a sink, a refrigerator, an electric tea kettle and a plethora of other appliances one might need to make lunch or dinner. It was almost exclusively for Alfred's use, since he was the one who made Arthur's tea, cleaned Arthur's dishes and used the refrigerator to store his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.   
  
The one thing it did not have, however, was a coffee machine.


	3. Chapter 3

“Here's your tea, sir,” Alfred said as he set Arthur's teacup down on his desk.   
  
Arthur didn't look up from what he was reading. “Did you steep it longer this time?”   
  
“Yes,” Alfred answered, rolling his eyes.  
  
“Don't roll your eyes at me,” Arthur said, still engrossed in his reading.  
  
Alfred frowned at his boss, wondering how the hell he did that without even glancing up. “I wasn't,” Alfred said, because there wasn't any way the man could _prove_ it.  
  
“And don't lie,” Arthur added, finally looking up as he reached for his tea. He took a cautious sip, swallowed and looked straight ahead for a moment, silent. Alfred could tell he was grading the tea preparation on a scale of one to ten. Alfred rarely got anything above an eight and was continually threatened with being fired if he ever let it drop below a six.   
  
“Seven,” Arthur said succinctly, and took another sip.  
  
How, exactly, Arthur had his rating scale set up was a complete mystery to Alfred, but seeing as how the American couldn't tell the difference himself, he was convinced that the rating had nothing to do with the tea itself, and was based solely on how annoyed Arthur was with Alfred at any given moment. It wouldn't surprise Alfred if the man had made up the rating system on a whim just to mess with Alfred's sense of worth, as if that could possibly be based on something as lame as tea, anyway.   
  
Also, Alfred had taken sips from both an eight cup and a six cup and they'd tasted exactly the same. He couldn't offer this as proof of his argument, however, because he was fairly certain Arthur would fire him for drinking from his teacup, which would be entirely counterproductive. The fact that Arthur hadn't figured it out yet, however, gave Alfred hope; perhaps the man hadn't honed his telepathic super powers to their full capacity yet.  
  
“Apologies,” Alfred said. He waited for Arthur to glance up at him before he added, “Sir,” with a hint of a smirk. Arthur's cup paused briefly on it's way to his mouth before continuing smoothly.  
  
Alfred was almost completely sure that Arthur had no idea he'd done it, and that made Alfred want to grin outright. There weren't many ways he could entertain himself in an office where all he did was answer phones, take messages and occasionally attempt to charm people in broken Spanish - though it was sometimes fun to come up with inventive ways to say 'no' to people Arthur didn't want to talk to. But when Alfred had discovered the effect the word 'sir' had on Arthur, his days had become infinitely more enjoyable. The man paused or twitched every time Alfred said it, without fail, and it led to amusing incidents more often than not. The fourth time he'd said it, and the first time he'd added that little quirk of his mouth that he usually used on cute girls, Arthur had actually run into the door frame on his way into his office. Alfred had continued doing it for the past week and he had to admit to the probability that it wouldn't ever get old.  
  
“I've been thinking, sir,” Alfred said.  
  
“Dangerous pastime,” Arthur responded, as if he'd been _waiting_ for Alfred to feed him that line, had been practicing in front of a mirror to make sure it came out smoothly and with just the right intonation and cadence to make it sound like an effortless cut to his intelligence. Alfred took a moment to tip his metaphorical hat, then continued.  
  
“Yeah,” Alfred agreed, because despite Alfred's budding love of annoying the man, now wasn't the time. He had a favor to ask and his brother had told him repeatedly as children that it was unwise to piss someone off _before_ you asked them to do something. Timing was key. “But sometimes I do it anyway.”  
  
Arthur just raised a substantially bushy eyebrow at him. Sometimes Alfred got distracted by them, especially when the man frowned and they came together like a dark furry caterpillar stuck just above his eyes, which were, ironically, just as green as he imagined most caterpillars were. Maybe greener.  
  
“And?” Arthur prompted, and Alfred refocused.  
  
“And I know we have that tea kettle thing,” Alfred continued, flopping his hand about in the air to sort of indicate what he was talking about. “But we don't have a coffee machine.”  
  
“We don't need a coffee machine, Mr. Jones,” Arthur said, taking a sip of his tea, as if to punctuate his statement. “I drink tea, not coffee.”  
  
Alfred hummed and nodded, bringing his hands together in front of him. He'd anticipated this argument. He'd also anticipated a finger pointed at the door and a death glare, perhaps followed by a _GTFO!_ Sometimes, in Alfred's mind, Arthur spoke using chat-room acronyms, and it made him giggle. Not out loud, but-  
  
“But I like coffee,” Alfred said.   
  
“And I tolerate that caramel, chocolate, whip-creamed battery acid you bring in from Barstucks every morning despite the fact that it makes my office smell so strongly of _sugar and malnutrition_ that I must constantly tamp down on my urge to throw up all over the most recent applications from college students so deprived of intelligence and common logic from sucking down gallons of artificially flavored, sugary sludge masquerading as something edible that they actually cannot control their motor functions enough to write coherently, _spill_ that vile substance all over their applications and then _still_ send them in to my office so I can waste half my morning throwing them in the bin.”  
  
There was a pause where Alfred contemplated his response. For a brief moment, he considered conceding defeat, but he'd never been one to back down from anything, not even blind hatred or scathing British wit, and he certainly wasn't about to start now. But he had to go about this delicately, because if he didn't, he might lose his one chance at having a coffee machine before he'd even gotten into the extensive arguments he may or may not have practiced in front of the mirror in order to persuade Arthur that it was a good investment. So he decided to choose his words carefully.  
  
“First of all,” he started. “It's Starbucks. I think it's pretty cute the way you mix up your letters like that. Do you do that on purpose?”  
  
Arthur glared at him and Alfred thought that maybe that hadn't been the best opener. But he couldn't help it, sometimes things bypassed his filter and just came out of his mouth without his permission. He'd been trying to work on that, but his progress had slowed to a stop ever since he'd started working for Arthur, strangely enough. Maybe bushy-browed Englishmen had some weird affect on a charming American's ability to think before he spoke?   
  
“And secondly,” he continued, holding up two fingers. “Have you ever even _had_ coffee?”  
  
“Why would I?” Arthur asked derisively. “Tea is much better.”  
  
Alfred hummed loudly. “But technically you can't say that since you've never tried coffee.”  
  
Arthur scowled at him and took another pointed sip of his tea. He brought the cup away from his mouth slightly, let out a pleased sigh, then brought it to his face again just to smell the steam still coming off the liquid inside. He took another sip and set the cup down gently. Then he went back to work, ignoring Alfred completely.  
  
The American let him get away with it for approximately six seconds. “So is that a yes?”  
  
Arthur's fingers tightened on the pen in his hand and he looked up slowly. “No, Alfred. It is not.”  
  
The look on Arthur's face told Alfred to stop pushing him, that he was dangerously close to the edge and if the American said one more thing, he might just snap. Alfred hadn't seen Arthur snap yet, but he'd heard stories from other employees that he'd spoken with. One had involved a smashed printer and an arm cast, another had ended with a broken window and the loss of exactly forty-three and a half post-it pads. Another had ended with a stain on the carpet of the fourth floor hallway that had enough of a red tinge to freak people out and hadn't ever come out completely. Alfred didn't really want to press his luck, so he made the surprisingly conservative decision to back off.  
  
For now, anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

“I've been thinking,” Alfred told his boss that Friday, knowing full well that Arthur wouldn't use the same insult within a week, lest he be accused of lacking literary proficiency and verbal ingenuity. At the same time he was hoping that three days and the fact that tomorrow was the weekend would've put his boss in a fairly agreeable mood.  
  
“You should probably leave that to the professionals,” Arthur said, in that same tone he'd used three days earlier. The tea Alfred had brought him must have been nearing an eight on Arthur's scale because the man's eyebrows had yet to sink into an expression of disdain. Alfred briefly entertained the idea that Arthur's face was actually rather attractive when he wasn't scowling and that maybe he should smile more often – but that had nothing to do with anything at all, really, and he had no idea where the thought had actually come from, so he swung his attention back to the matter at hand.  
  
“Yes,” he said in agreement. “But this is important.”  
  
“If this is about the elevator not stopping on the fifth floor, I believe you already called the repair service,” Arthur said calmly. “In the mean time, tell all those who work on the fifth floor to quit being lazy arses and use the stairs. Men were using stairs for centuries before the elevator came into being, and perhaps if they took the time to walk the distance from the lobby to their assigned spaces of supposed work they would have an extra ten minutes to think about how badly their last assignment sounded to those of us who've actually put a life's worth of dedication into understanding literary greatness and realize that their current piece of work will likely meet the same end as the last one if they do not put some sort of effort into making it sound better than a second grader's report on the book _Everybody Poos_.”  
  
Alfred blinked, then grinned. “You certainly know your literary masterpieces, sir,” he said.   
  
Arthur glared at him. “Did you honestly just gloss over the entirety of my very precisely outlined point?”  
  
Alfred said, “I've read that one, y'know. I bet you're proud of me for reading something you've read too.”  
  
Arthur stared at him for a long, silent moment and just before it turned awkward and Alfred started to fidget, Arthur said, “You're getting the blame for that one.”  
  
“ _Everybody Poos?_ Why?” Alfred asked.  
  
“Because you're American,” Arthur said simply.  
  
“That book came from Japan, sir,” Alfred explained. “You can't blame me.”  
  
“Doesn't matter,” Arthur said loudly, going back to his tea.  
  
“And besides,” Alfred continued, pausing before he added, “Sir.” His mouth quirked up slightly when Arthur lost his glare, closing his eyes for an elongated second and trying to mask it as mere enjoyment of his favorite warm beverage. “The elevator was fixed yesterday,” Alfred finished.  
  
“Well, then,” Arthur said briskly, taking a sip of his tea. “I suppose I will have to overlook the fact that my employees have once more descended into a creative rut and be done with it.” Then he waved his hand in gesture that implied he was, indeed, done with it.   
  
“I wanted to talk to you about the coffee machine I requested on Tuesday,” Alfred said then, ignoring the implication that his services and opinions were no longer needed. In his personal opinion, they were always needed.  
  
“If I remember correctly, that discussion _ended_ on Tuesday,” Arthur said.  
  
Alfred thought _You're getting old, so don't worry about your memory going,_ might not be the most diplomatic thing to say at the moment, and that Arthur probably wouldn't appreciate Alfred bringing up his age.   
  
(And besides, Arthur wasn't _that_ old, and even if he was, he was still pretty attractive for an old guy and trying to explain his thought process usually made things worse so he should probably just quit while he was ahead.)   
  
So instead, Alfred said, “I was wondering if perhaps you would reconsider,” and mentally patted himself on the back for such a diplomatic and unoffensive use of large words to express his need for a coffee machine.   
  
The amount of effort was apparently lost on Arthur, however.  
  
“Alfred,” his boss said, tone level. “This is actually a halfway decent cup of tea and I am willing to forgive you based on that fact alone, but my generosity ends there.”  
  
“Right,” Alfred said, glancing back at the door to the stairway and wondering what the odds were. If his reflexes were just as good now as they had been in college, he might be able to make it to safety should his boss decide to just vault over the desk and go for his throat. He could probably make it, he thought, and turned back, deciding to go for it. “I'd even be willing to buy it myself, if you'd just-”  
  
Arthur glared at him. “I know you American's have fucked up the English language so much it's an honest miracle that you can communicate with each other at all, but here in England, no actually means _no_. Sometimes _hell no_. And in this case, I'd like to add that there's the implication that if you ask me again, I will throw this stapler at your head.”  
  
Alfred eyed the stapler, then turned back to smile blithely at his boss.  
  
His angry face was kinda sexy, too.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Arthur: 2, Alfred: 0.


	5. Chapter 5

Alfred had thought Arthur would appreciate him being direct about wanting a coffee machine. The man was, after all, more than a little enthusiastic about office protocol. But perhaps Alfred had misjudged him. Perhaps a more subtle, slow seduction into the idea of coffee would appeal more to his tea-loving boss, especially given his appreciation for epic romance novels. _(He kept a pile in the bottom left drawer of his desk that he thought no one knew about, but Alfred had caught a glimpse one day when he was organizing and all he had to say was_ wow. _He was pretty sure some of those had naughty scenes in them.)_  
  
But back to the matter at hand; Alfred was after a more delicate way to convince Arthur to let him buy a coffee machine, a series of convincing arguments that weren't _actually_ arguments so much as suggestions. Alfred didn't normally do _subtle_ , but he had charm in spades and if it meant finally getting his coffee machine, he would simply have to get creative.   
  
And surprisingly enough, on his way to get his own cup of caffeinated heaven the following morning, inspiration struck.   
  
The moment he stepped around that last corner before the coffee shop, he felt that slow, faint tendril of aroma flow into his senses, travel up to caress whichever part of his brain loved coffee so much and wrap it in the sweet embrace of desire. When he smelled the coffee shop, his craving for coffee would always sky rocket immediately, and it was no different this morning.   
  
So when he stepped inside to pick up his normal morning cup, he ordered three more plain coffees, each with a pump of hazelnut flavor. Then he sped toward his workplace _(as fast as he could with four cups of coffee in one of those flimsy holders, anyway)_ and managed to make it into the office before Arthur. He took a long moment to sip some of his own coffee, closing his eyes in pure joy as the tast of it hit his tongue, and then went about his task.  
  
He set the other three just underneath the raised front of his desk, far enough under to hide them from the casual observer, but far enough out that when he took the caps off of them, the steam curled into the air. It only took a few minutes for the entire front office to smell softly of hazelnut coffee and Alfred sat back as his computer booted up, patting himself mentally on the back for having such an awesome idea.   
  
He set about organizing his schedule for the day and the scent slowly faded, making Alfred worry that when Arthur finally did make it in, he wouldn't smell it. But just as Alfred was considering ordering another four or five cups and asking if Starbucks would deliver _(and if they didn't, bribing one of the first floor cubicle monkeys to do it for him)_ , his boss walked through the doors.   
  
“Mornin', boss!” he called cheerfully, bringing his own coffee up to sip at. Arthur slowed when he reached Alfred's desk and inhaled deeply, looking around. He eyed Alfred for a long moment, gaze following the cup as Alfred took a slow, luxurious sip and let out a pleasant hum, before he seemed to shake it off, nodded his head curtly and entered his office.  
  
Alfred smirked at the reaction, but it fell slowly into a frown as he lost sight of his boss and glanced at the three cups of coffee, cool enough now that he couldn't see the steam at all. While amusing, that hadn't been the reaction he'd been looking for. He'd been hoping for something like _Cor blimey! What is that delectable smell and where might I procure some so as to thoroughly enjoy its delicious taste!?_ or perhaps _Oh, my giddy aunt! That smell is ace! I would bloody kill to have some of that!_  
  
Alfred chuckled in his head.   
  
Yeah. Arthur's accent was pretty fantastic.


	6. Chapter 6

Two days into his coffee buying scheme, Alfred stood next to Arthur as they waited for the elevator. It was a rare thing for them to ride together and Alfred was at once giddy with excitement and sort of nervous. He had no idea why those two emotions were playing a hyper game of tag within his stomach, but it was sort of akin to that feeling he got when he was with someone he hadn't seen in a while and he had to physically restrain himself from just leaping at them and smothering them with enthusiastic affection. He'd been feeling kind of weird lately, and the urge to hug his boss had slowly but surely been rising within him.  
  
Alfred had thought about it in great depth, and he'd come to the conclusion that it was his inherent desire to make people happy that was currently getting the best of him. Arthur was perpetually grumpy, almost never smiled, and from day one Alfred had been trying his absolute hardest to lighten the guy up a bit. And it was quite a task, considering Arthur's eyebrows were probably so heavy that he couldn't _help it_ if they made his face sink into a frown most of the time. That, and the guy had a mean streak a mile long, gave absolutely zero fucks about what people thought of him, and was completely unafraid to wip out every bit of sarcastic snark he had in his impressive arsenal to get his point across and simultaneously illustrate with brutal efficiency how incredibly laughable your own opinion was.   
  
Actually, now that Alfred thought about it, Arthur was kind of a dick.  
  
But anyway. Perhaps it was this urge to just make the man _smile_ for once in his life that had Alfred all twitter-pated and fidgety with the effort not to invade Arthur's personal space. But whatever it was, it was getting harder and harder to keep a handle on it, and they were about to get into an elevator together.  
  
The light pinged and the doors slid open to reveal and empty elevator waiting for them. Arthur got on without hesitation and raised an eyebrow at Alfred when he took an extra moment to finally step in. Arthur's thumb jabbed the button for the lobby with vicious certainty and Alfred felt momentary pity for the button panel. Then the doors slid shut and they were enclosed in an awkward silence. When the thing actually began to move, that little momentary sensation of weightlessness hit Alfred like a freight train. The giddy euphoria of suddenly moving downward hit his excitement and nerves and exploded into an abrupt and loud giggle.  
  
Arthur turned to him sharply and frowned when Alfred brought his hand up to cover his mouth. “What's so funny?” he asked.  
  
Alfred considered trying to explain it, but thought that perhaps he would get lost halfway through and just come off as silly – and the last thing he needed was Arthur thinking he was silly. So he filed that response in the back of his brain, in the folder labeled _not your best, but not your worst,_ and the next one that came forward just happened to be, “How do you feel about hugs?”  
  
Well. Alfred could honestly say he wasn't exactly surprised that one had slipped past his filters. It'd been on his mind for at least half a week now.  
  
“What?” Arthur asked, deadpan.  
  
Alfred decided to go with it. What's the worse that could happen?  
  
“You know,” he said, moving so that he faced Arthur, back to the doors. He raised his arms out, as if beckoning the man into an embrace. “When you hold out your arms and the other person does too, and then you fit them together and _hug_.”  
  
Arthur was silent.  
  
“It's something you do with-”  
  
“I know what a hug is,” Arthur interrupted, clearly frustrated and slightly agitated, if the slight pinkish hue to his cheeks was anything to go by. “I just wanted to know why you- I mean- brought it up, is all,” he finished in a huff.  
  
“I was just thinking,” Alfred said, inching a bit closer. “That if you got a hug, maybe you'd be happier and your frowny face would go away.”  
  
“I'm perfectly happy and I most certainly do not have a frowny face,” Arthur argued, back against the elevator wall, arms crossed and face, well – what could Alfred say? It was rather frowny, despite the man's argument.   
  
“Kindly stop invading my personal bubble,” Arthur finished.  
  
“I'm not-” Alfred began to say, but was interrupted by the pinging of the elevator and the sudden noise of about ten different people having a conversation at once as the doors opened. Alfred turned slightly, glanced at the numbers – only the fourth floor – and then tried to steady himself as a rush of people, likely leaving for lunch like Alfred and Arthur were, hurried onto the elevator and started pushing him toward the back.  
  
“What the bloody-” was all he heard before he was being squished against Arthur in a way much more intimate than the simple hug he'd offered earlier. Their chests were flush together, to say nothing of their nether bits, and Alfred's hands were braced against the back of the elevator to keep himself from being pushed even further into the Englishman with the rapidly fraying temper. Alfred was not completely unaware of the concept called 'irony,' so he let a smile spread over his face when he saw the unhappy scowl gracing Arthur's.  
  
“You can't blame me for this,” Alfred said lowly, hoping the continued chatter from those around them covered their conversation.  
  
“I can and will,” Arthur argued, shifting slightly in an attempt to put more distance between them. The doors pinged shut and they were moving again.  
  
“Aw, come on,” Alfred whined. “S'not my fault at all.”  
  
“If you had kept your bloody distance,” Arthur hissed back, hand shoving into Alfred's abdomen as the man tried to push him away with little success, “I wouldn't- this wouldn't have- I mean you-”  
  
“Whoa,” Alfred said. Not because Arthur was being really funny and stuttering and getting all red in the face and touching him in places that maybe sorta tickled - but because there was definitely a hand on his ass. A grabby hand.  
  
“Are you touching my butt?” he whispered.  
  
Arthur's face exploded with color and he sputtered impressively for half a second before he hissed, “Of course not, you giant twit!”  
  
“Wonder who it is then,” Alfred murmured, not entirely concerned with who the appendage belonged to if not to Arthur _(but to tell the truth he was a little disappointed it didn't)_.  
  
“What- you mean-” Arthur mumbled heatedly, eyes narrowing.   
  
Alfred opened his mouth to assure Arthur he believed him - because he wasn't about to accuse his boss of copping a feel, especially not in an elevator full of the man's employees – when Arthur reached around him abruptly. Then there was a sudden yelp and French cussing, followed by the immediate removal of the hand on his ass. Arthur leaned back again and crossed his arms – or at least tried to until he realized his hand would have to graze Alfred's crotch to do so, after which he gave up and let them flop awkwardly at his side.  
  
Alfred grinned at him, completely and obnoxiously unconcerned. “Thanks for defending my honor, sir,” he said lowly, because he couldn't just _let it go_.   
  
Arthur just scowled at him and looked pointedly to the side until they reached the lobby, wherein he stomped off and everyone he pushed out of the way – including the Frenchman who's face was nearly shoved into the emergency stop button – was very confused as to just who the angry Englishman with the raging blush actually was.  
  
Alfred did not enlighten them.


	7. Chapter 7

After another week or so of buying as much coffee as he could carry and having Arthur studiously ignore him and any attempts he made at conversation, Alfred decided that he would go bankrupt before Arthur would give him what he wanted, and changed the plan.  
  
This time, he went online and ordered a coffee flavored candle. Three, in fact, on the theory that they'd last longer and possibly smell better after they'd been sitting there for four hours _(and there'd been a sale, so why not? - he could put the caramel one in his apartment and no it wasn't girly, fuck off, Gilbert)_.  
  
He'd spent the extra seven dollars to speed up the delivery and the following Monday brought the first opportunity to try out his new plan. He waited until Arthur had been in his office for an hour, enough time to make sure he'd finished his morning cup of tea, and then he brought out his mocha scented candle. He set it off the side of his desk, making sure to keep it far enough away from anything flammable, and then lit the wick with a lighter he'd ganked off of Gilbert this morning when the man had been trying to hit on one of the office women _(the albino jerk would do well to remember revenge took many forms)_.  
  
He watched the wick take light and burn, slowly but surely melting the candle beneath and filling the air with the aroma of a mocha latte. Alfred inhaled, enjoying the scent, and then went to work as he waited for Arthur to notice.  
  
It actually took the better part of an hour before Arthur stepped out of his office, nose in the air, and Alfred was halfway convinced the majority of the reason it had taken so long was that Arthur still felt incredibly awkward around him after the Elevator Incident. He'd been practically hiding in his office for the past week. But Alfred was pleased to see his plan had worked, that he'd gotten to the man, and so he placed the glass cover over the candle and pushed it out of sight in one motion, keeping the smoke within as he clicked the cover shut. Arthur looked in his direction and frowned.  
  
“Do you smell that?” Arthur asked, and inside Alfred's mind, he threw his hands up in the air and cheered.  
  
Outwardly, though, Alfred clicked idly at his keyboard a few times, and sniffed the air idly before frowning. “Smell what?”  
  
“It smells like...” Arthur trailed off, looking around. “I don't know. Maybe chocolate.”  
  
“I haven't brought chocolate to work since you gave me that twenty minute lecture on how cavities will destroy my teeth,” Alfred said. “Which is _ironic_ , considering your-”  
  
“Don't say it,” Arthur snapped, glaring at the American. “I will kill you if you say one thing about British dental care-”  
  
“I _wasn't_ going to say anything about that,” Alfred argued, raising his hands to give the impression of innocence. “I was _going to say_ , it's ironic because your sister works in a candy shop.”  
  
Arthur glared.  
  
“Which sells chocolate.”  
  
Pause.  
  
“You see where I'm goin' here? The irony of it is-”  
  
“Oh, belt up,” Arthur growled. “I know what irony is.”  
  
Arthur's eyes remained narrowed for the next few moments, until Alfred added, “Of course, sir.” Then they widened and he jerked his head away quickly, much to Alfred's amusement.   
  
“Well,” Arthur said, and Alfred could tell that his feathers had been ruffled. It was quickly becoming one of his favorite pastimes; and with reactions like Arthur's, who _wouldn't_ love pushing his buttons? And yeah, the fact that Alfred found his flustered sputtering to be incredibly endearing might have something to do with it, so what?  
  
Arthur's nose twitched once and he looked toward the break room, obviously still miffed about the strange smell, and Alfred's mind zeroed back in on the matter at hand.  
  
“Maybe it's coffee?” Alfred asked.  
  
“I said it smells like chocolate, not dirty puddle water that's been shat in by seventeen different types of nasty and then heated up to the point where it scalds your tongue and burns off enough of your taste buds that you can't tell what you're drinking is actually unpalatable.”  
  
Alfred blinked. Arthur was really creatively sadistic when it came to insults, specifically when talking about coffe, and Alfred wondered if he got this way with any other topics. He almost felt like he should write some of these down and make a book or something. It would be one of those entirely useless but thoroughly _entertaining_ books that you kept on your coffee table to entertain guests or in the bathroom to keep you occupied - like that picture book he'd found in his hometown about _Things That Look Like Penises_. Money well spent.  
  
He said, “What about coffee with chocolate in it?”  
  
Arthur scoffed, turning back toward his office. “That's just another way of saying you ruined a cup of hot chocolate,” he said primly, then went back to his desk.


	8. Chapter 8

After a few weeks of the candle plan, Alfred stopped burning them altogether.  
  
“I've tried everything I can think of and nothing works,” he lamented, head resting on his folded arms.  
  
“I thought you said you were trying to be subtle,” came the response, melodious and smooth in a way that Alfred was ninety percent sure only came with French accents.  
  
Alfre raised his head, frowning as he watched Francis lick chocolate off his finger. “Candles are subtle,” he argued.  
  
“Forgive me, _mon ami_ ,” Francis said, smiling up at him from where he sat at his desk. “I was under the impression that you meant a different kind of subtle.”  
  
Alfred frowned from where he leaned against the cubicle wall, shifting his weight. “There's more than one kind?”  
  
“Of course,” Francis purred. He took another bit of the pastry he was eating for lunch and pushed his chair back slowly, standing as his fingers once more went toward his mouth. Alfred's eyes followed them as he sucked the chocolate off his pointer finger, then idly stuck the next one between his lips as he hummed in thought. He pulled it out slowly, dragging it across his bottom lip for a moment before his mouth curved into a smile.  
  
“Am I making you uncomfortable?” Francis asked lowly.  
  
Alfred blushed and jerked his eyes back to the Frenchman's face. “N-No! Of course not.”   
  
“I rest my case,” Francis said, then sidled up as close as he could get with the cubicle wall between them. Alfred was thankful for the barrier; Francis was entirely too good at copping a feel when you least expected it - the Elevator Incident was proof of that.   
  
“Alfred, your position offers you both an advantage and disadvantage. You are close to your target, and that's to your favor, but Arthur is most comfortable, most _confident_ , when he's sitting in that lush office of his, pulling the strings of his company and making his peons dance like the master puppeteer he dreams he is. You must seek to displace that confidence.”  
  
“Ah-huh,” Alfred mumbled, edging his face away from his friend's. “And how do I do that?”  
  
“Subtly,” Francis said with a smirk. “It's easier than you might think; I have it on good authority that Arthur's last escapade in _l'amore_ was with someone named William.”  
  
Alfred gave Francis a blank look. “Would this 'good authority' be a certain albino from marketing?”  
  
“Possibly,” Francis said, eyebrows raised slightly before they fell into a deadpan. “But you are missing the point.”  
  
“Which is?” Alfred prompted.  
  
“I have never met a woman named William, my pet.”  
  
Alfred frowned. That implied Arthur was at least half gay. That _was_ good news, he supposed, because Alfred felt less like an ass for appreciating Arthur's if the man was actually into that kind of thing. And he'd kind of suspected anyway, what with the blushing and the sputtering, but was Francis actually implying that he should use this information to-  
  
“Francis!” came a hurried whisper and they both turned to find Kiku peeking around the cubical wall from his own desk. “Ludwig is making rounds.”  
  
Francis glanced at his computer before waving his hand nonchalantly. “The Great and Wonderful PA of Arthur Kirkland is here, there is no need to fret, _mon chou_.”  
  
“He might see, Francis,” Kiku insisted. “I think you should-”  
  
“You worry too much, my dear,” Francis insisted, turning back to Alfred. “I am perfectly confident in your firewalls or codes or whatever it is that you use to keep my secrets hidden.”  
  
“Francis,” Kiku tried to say firmly, but it came out a little desperate. When Francic made no move to do anything about Kiku's request, the Japanese man pushed his chair out and around so that he could get at Francis' computer. Or he would've, rather, if his headphone cord hadn't gotten caught.  
  
“Gah!” he yelled as the cord yanked him back and he fell, still attached to his chair, into a pile on the floor. Francis turned around then, eyes wide, and they both watched as a hand slowly crept up from the floor and reached for Francis' keyboard. With a few short keystrokes, three windows the screen disappeared, never to be seen again _(at least until Francis found them once more)_.   
  
Alfred turned to his friend. “Porn? At work?”  
  
His friend smiled slowly and shrugged. “To each their own, _oui?_ ”  
  
“And since when does Kiku call you _Francis_ and not _Bonnefoy-san_?”  
  
Francis turned to look at the man still struggling to untangle his headphone cord from his chair and then smiled as he turned back to Alfred. “Since I fed him homemade _coq au vin_ and made him scream my name until his voice was raw.”  
  
Alfred raised an eyebrow at Francis in disbelief. “You fed him cock for dinner?”  
  
Francis smiled indulgently. “Oh, _Amerique_ , you are a treasure. I tell you what, the next time you have coffee, order something that is topped with at least an inch of whipped cream. And do not drink it until you are at the office.”  
  
Alfred usually left the whipped cream off, because then he could have ice cream for dessert later and not feel as guilty. He also usually had at least half of his coffee downed by the time he arrived at work, since he hated lukewarm anything. But Francis was sort of a self-proclaimed expert on persuasion, and Alfred was out of ideas anyway, so really, what was the worst that could happen?  
  
“If you say so.”


	9. Chapter 9

Alfred wasn't due at work until 8:30 the next morning, for reasons Arthur seemed perfectly fine with keeping to himself. So when he finally did step out of the elevator to start his day, coffee cup in hand, Arthur was already sitting in his office. Alfred had taken Francis' advice and ordered coffee with whipped cream, and despite the overwhelming temptation to take a sip while he made his way to work, he hadn't taken even one. But he was there now and he wasn't going to wait any longer, so he dropped his bag off behind his desk, grabbed the mail that had been deposited in his 'in' basket and made his way into Arthur's office to deliver it.  
  
He took a long anticipated sip on his way through the door and discovered a problem he hadn't foreseen when ordering. With as much whipped cream on top as Francis had instructed him to order, he couldn't actually get to the coffee without smearing the cream all over his upper lip and nose. But with his cup in one hand and the mail in the other, he had no way of vanquishing the embarrassing mishap outside of using his tongue.  
  
So that's what he did.  
  
He ran it along his upper lip slowly, tasting the slightly coffee-tinged cream slide across his tongue as he cleared it. Then he did it two more times to make sure he'd gotten everything he could with his tongue. But he could definitely still feel some on his nose and so he risked setting the mail down on Arthur's desk so that he could use his finger to get the last of it. When there was no immediate cry of disdain or derisive attack on his manners, Alfred figured either Arthur didn't mind or he hadn't caught it. So he quickly wiped the smudge of cream off his nose with his finger and stuck it in his mouth, running his tongue along the pad of his finger as he sucked it clean. As he let the finger slide from his mouth, his eyes landed on his boss.  
  
Alfred had been ready to defend himself against some sort of insult to his intelligence, but as he took in the state of his boss, he figured that was one thing he didn't have to worry about at the moment. Arthur's gaze was glued on Alfred's mouth, eyelids shuttered just enough to make him look this side of predatory as his mouth opened minutely to let out exhales that were heavier than they really ought to be, almost like he was -   
  
Alfred's eyes widened considerably when he put Francis' comments and Arthur's reaction together and got a very interesting conclusion.  
  
(Actually, he probably should've seen this one coming, but that didn't make the revelation any less satisfying.)  
  
“I brought your mail, sir,” Alfred said slowly, watching with growing amusement and an entirely indecent amount of pleasure as his boss snapped out of his daze and scowled in an attempt to hide the blush that was spreading across his cheeks.   
  
“You want a goddamn medal for doing your job?” Arthur asked in an irritated tone of voice, turning in his swivel chair and making a large and overly dramatic production out of opening the first envelop in the stack Alfred had handed to him.  
  
Before his conversation with their resident Frenchman _(whom many believed to be the foremost expert on workplace romances – quite possibly_ because _he was French)_ , Alfred would have simply grinned at his boss's back, incredibly pleased with himself that he'd managed to get under his skin enough for him to snap. Because he really did love to annoy the man. Now, however, there was a pleasant warmth that came with the British cussing, a little pack of butterflies that erupted in his stomach when he thought about just _why_ Arthur was upset with him. He was largely confident that 'deflecting' was the word he was looking for and _oh_ , Arthur thought he didn't read but he definitely knew what _that_ meant.  
  
It meant the day he got his coffee machine might be closer than he had originally thought. He had found Arthur's weakness, and victory was so close he could literally almost taste it.  
  
No, seriously. In this case, victory would definitely taste like coffee and considering he'd be getting a coffee machine if he did indeed attain victory, that would _literally_ mean Alfred could _taste victory_.  
  
Arthur thought Alfred didn't know the meaning of the word _literally_. But he totally did.


	10. Chapter 10

All things considered, Francis was an incredibly foul enabler.  
  
Alfred stood in the break room, steeping Arthur's morning tea, fingers tugging idly on the teabag's string as he let his mind get lost in memories from the past week or so. Ever since the Whipped Cream Incident, and the subsequent realization that Arthur had a rather solid _thing_ for him _(and yeah, as soon as he'd thought that his mind had plummeted into the gutter, he wouldn't lie about that)_ Alfred had found it increasingly difficult to think about anything else. Every time he'd found a reason to go into Arthur's office, he watched the man closely, trying to read his reactions with the influence of his this newfound knowledge floating on the edge of his perception.  
  
The results had been funny. And also enlightening. But mostly funny.  
  
For example, on Monday Alfred had accidentally _(at least that's what he'd tell anyone who asked)_ dropped the mail as he'd crossed into Arthur's office. It had scattered all over the floor and Alfred had dutifully bent to pick it up so that he could give it to his boss, spending an extra amount of time making sure they were all stacked in the correct order and formation. When he'd finally risen, Arthur's face had been slightly pink and he'd avoided eye contact for the entire length of the ensuing conversation about whether or not he should even bother opening Mr. Braginsky's letter of inquiry. Alfred had left the office pleasantly aglow and had decided to dedicate more time to squats when he went to the gym next time.  
  
On Wednesday, he'd accidentally knocked over Arthur's pen cup, scattering writing utensils all over his desk. Again, he'd hurried to clean the mess up himself, going so far as to reach for the ones that had managed to roll all the way across the desk and into Arthur's lap. He'd honestly expected the man to snap at him to cover his embarrassment _(Alfred's hands were in his_ crotch  </i>after all)</i>, but Arthur had surprised him. He had lost most of his usual glare _(and almost all of his composure, amusingly)_ and he'd stuttered through a request that Alfred please just let Arthur get those, no need to worry about it, you can leave now, _thank you very much._ And if Arthur had stayed in his office a little longer than normal, given that he was supposed to be attending a meeting he ended up being twenty minutes late to, Alfred hadn't mentioned it.  
  
On Friday, work had been slow and so Alfred had decided to clean Arthur's office. The man was so anal about his work that he didn't allow the regular cleaning staff into his office, and so generally it was Alfred's job on Tuesday and Friday evenings to clean anyway. Arthur had been going through a thick stack of papers at the time, either a proposal of some sort or someone's work that he was proofing himself. Alfred had started with the desk, straightening things and wiping it down wherever he could without disturbing Arthur's work. Then he'd moved on to the windows, wiping them clear with as much precision as he could. His shirt had come untucked when he'd reached to do the tops, but he'd re-tucked it when he was finished.  
  
Halfway through dusting he'd had to step out for a phone call, clicking his earpiece on the second ring and stopping just outside Arthur's door so as not to disturb him. It had been a magazine company, calling for the fifth time about an interview Arthur hadn't wanted to do a month ago and certainly didn't want to do now; so instead of taking down the relavent information like he assured the caller he was, he'd stood there twirling the duster in his hand, letting it tumble skillfully between his fingers.  
  
He'd returned afterward, finished his dusting and gone on to the book shelf, straightening those that Arthur had used and making sure everything looked neat and in order. He'd finished that without interruption and when he'd walked past Arthur's desk on the way out, he'd noticed, oddly enough, that Arthur was on the same page as when Alfred had started.   
  
On the following Monday, Alfred managed to accidentally run into his boss as they both headed for the door that led to the elevators. _(And if Arthur had later mentioned anything about Alfred being more clumsy as of late, Alfred had feigned complete innocence.)_  
  
He'd hit the man hard and Arthur had stumbled, tipping precariously as he tried to regain his balance, so Alfred had reached out to steady him, wrapping an arm around his waist to keep him from falling.   
  
“Sorry, sir,” he'd said happily. “Didn't see you there!”  
  
Arthur had been stiff as Alfred had straightened him, their faces so close that Alfred could feel Arthur's breath brushing against his cheek. He'd held the man there for long moments, just breathing, then let him go slowly, sticking his hands in his pockets as he watched Arthur try and gather himself.  
  
“Don't...” he'd muttered. “Don't let it happen again.”  
  
He'd tried to sound angry, but Alfred had mostly just thought it adorable the way he'd stomped off, muttering to himself as his cheeks kept up a cheerfully pink hue. The elevator ride had been the best awkward silence Alfred had ever been part of, especially considering what had happened the last time.  
  
Alfred let a smile spread across his face at the memory, the image of Arthur's blush taking on an entirely indecent meaning the more he imagined it. Alfred couldn't help but wonder if Arthur would still be scowling if his mouth was actually preoccupied with-  
  
“What the hell are you so happy about?”  
  
Alfred startled, jerking his hand - fingers still attached to the teabag - up and to the side as he took a step back. The very man that he'd been thinking about stood in front of him and he watched as, almost in a horrid sort of slow motion, the teacup was nudged off the edge of the counter and toward Arthur.   
  
“Bloody _hell_!” Arthur yelled as hot tea splashed across the waist of his suit pants, soaking them through. The teacup crashed to the floor, breaking into small pieces that scattered across the tiles as Arthur stepped back, too late, to avoid getting hit.  
  
“Uh-oh,” Alfred said helpfully, then grabbed the nearest towel and bent, patting at the quickly spreading stain. To be fair, he'd started at Arthur's shirt but the majority of the spill had landed just above the man's crotch and gravity, being what it was, had allowed the liquid to effectively saturate the entirety of the man's lap.   
  
Arthur was currently frozen in place, and while Alfred would have guessed a mere ten to twelve pats would bring Arthur to his limit, his boss surprised him once again. He let Alfred get to over twenty before his hips jerked backward and the sputtering began in earnest.  
  
“Just - just leave it!” he muttered heatedly, blush stark on his cheeks. "I'll- I'll get it myse- Just stop already!"  
  
Alfred backed off easily, tossing the towel onto the counter and carefully stepping around the broken teacup and toward Arthur's office. He went to the small closet in the corner and pulled out an extra pair of pants that Arthur kept for situations just like this, bringing them back to the break room where Arthur still stood, looking down at his pants in despair.  
  
“Here,” Alfred said.  
  
“Thanks,” came the distracted answer, and Arthur grabbed the pants and turned.   
  
Alfred followed him back into his office, watching with ill-contained glee as Arthur's hands went to his button and fly as he walked, new pants hanging over his shoulder. He was about to pull them down when he noticed the American had come to a stop behind him. He turned, eyeing Alfred cautiously. Alfred was busy wondering why, exactly, Arthur hadn't started with the lecturing yet _(and possibly distracted by his anticipation at seeing Arthur take his pants off)_ , but was snapped out of his thoughts when the man cleared his throat loudly.  
  
“Do you mind?” he asked, and Alfred found the darkening blush on his cheeks thoroughly endearing.  
  
“No,” Alfred said, smiling. “I'll hafta take those to the cleaners anyway, so I'll just wait.”  
  
Arthur stared.  
  
“Sir,” Alfred added belatedly.  
  
Arthur hesitated, the silence stretching, and Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Are you embarrassed, sir?”  
  
“Of course not!” Arthur spat automatically, moving slowly to take off his suit pants, shimmying them down his hips and obviously trying to keep as much of his dignity intact as he stepped out of them and was left in nothing but his boxers and trouser socks.  
  
Alfred, for his part, had to try really, very hard not to laugh outright, because _seriously_ \- Arthur's boxers had the union jack printed across them in bold, bright colors and it was just _so_ \- Alfred was about to giggle himself into an aneurysm.  
  
“How very...” Alfred began, trailing off as he suppressed the urge to laugh, as Arthur's blush deepened even _more_. “...British of you,” he finished, grinning.  
  
“Belt up!” came the heated answer, accompanied by a flying pair of tea-soaked pants that hit him square in the face. “Get back to work, already!”  
  
Alfred just grinned as he caught the pants, because yeah – the discovery that Arthur Kirkland, president and resident tyrant of Kirkland Publishing, had a massive schoolboy crush on his American PA? Definitely one of the best things ever.


	11. Chapter 11

The only problem was, with the revelation that Arthur _liked_ Alfred, and the subsequent decision that Alfred definitely liked him back, came the ensuing urge to _touch_.  
  
Alfred had always been a tactile person, and to have something he wanted sitting not ten feet away, but unable to touch it, was kind of like having a chocolate bar sitting in the drawer of your desk and being unable to eat it because your boss would lecture you for half an hour on your eating habits if he caught you.  
  
Yeah.  
  
Arthur was like a chocolate bar.  
  
...that train of thought helped a great deal less than Alfred would have liked.


	12. Chapter 12

Although the outlook on convincing Arthur to buy a coffee machine was still rather bleak, the brand new and greatly treasured knowledge that Arthur blushed any time Alfred's tongue left his mouth or anytime Alfred bent over to pick something up or – well. Yes. Anyway, it kept Alfred's enthusiasm and optimism intact throughout the next few days. And somewhere between the shampoo and conditioner portions of his morning shower on Thursday morning, Alfred had an epiphany. And yes, Alfred had been so elated at his discovery that he'd accidentally let shampoo drip into his eye and that hadn't been very pleasant, but the idea - _the idea!_ \- was one of his best ever. No really.  
  
So.  
  
The last two times he'd tried to convince Arthur to get a coffee machine, he'd waited until Arthur had been in a good mood, based on the theory that a happy Arthur might be more willing to grant Alfred this small favor. But he had failed, quite spectacularly, both times. He was almost 100 percent certain logic dictated that therein lie his problem.  
  
Perhaps if he questioned Arthur on a _bad day_ , when he was stressed, hung over or otherwise displeased, he might just let Alfred have his way to get him out of his hair.  
  
So Alfred waited until Arthur came in with a particularly bad case of bedhead, circles under his bright green eyes and the look of someone who'd spent a good deal of their morning kneeling next to the toilet. Arthur was wearing the same tie he'd worn two days ago, a pair of pants that definitely needed ironing and mismatching socks. This generally meant that Arthur's morning had been a rough one. Alfred watched as his boss took nearly half a bottle of aspirin, threw the cup into the sink of their little lunch room and stalked into his office, completely ignoring him.  
  
Alfred straightened his pencils and tapped out the melody to _I'm a Little Teapot_ with his fingers as he watched the clock, wondering if Arthur's arrival to work severely hung over had anything to do with the fact that Alfred had managed to find a legitimate excuse to take his shirt off in the office the previous day. It might just be coincidence, but who knew with that man? When five minutes had passed, he stood and made his way into the lunch room, made Arthur's tea and took a deep breath.  
  
“So I've been thinking,” he told Arthur as he set his boss's tea down on his desk.   
  
“Oh god, not this again,” Arthur mumbled, hand going to his forehead as if he could calm his likely pounding headache through mere touch. Alfred kind of wanted to do the same, smooth back the frown with his fingertips, brush those errant strands of hair into a more presentable coif, anything that involved _touching_ \- but those thoughts were thoroughly unhelpful and besides, Arthur interrupted him anyway.  
  
“If you say one more thing about your bloody-”  
  
“Just give me a chance?” Alfred asked, pushing those thoughts to the back of his mind and making his tone as appealing as he could manage. “I promise you won't regret it.”  
  
“I already do,” Arthur grumbled, letting his head fall so that it smacked into the desk. Alfred moved his teacup out of the way slightly as Arthur slowly straightened back up. “Fuck.”  
  
“Sir,” Alfred insisted.  
  
Arthur looked up at him blearily, blinking as he scowled through a rather intense blush. Alfred's mind almost derailed at the thought of feeling that heat with his own fingertips, but he reigned in his thoughts and focused.  
  
“Plee~ase,” Alfred sang. He'd actually been counting on Arthur's hangover to do most of the convincing for him and hadn't really come up with any sort of solid argument. And hey, if Arthur still had doubts, Alfred was pretty damn adorable when he wanted to be and he was definitely not above exploiting Arthur's crush to get what he wanted.   
  
(Besides, it wasn't _really_ 'exploiting' when he had feelings for the man himself, right? Right.)  
  
Arthur's left eyebrow twitched and Alfred's tummy did a little flip that traveled up to his heart and got lodged in his throat on the way out. Arthur seemed on the edge of agreeing and Alfred's mind ran in frantic circles as he tried to think of something, anything, he might say to push his boss over the edge of indecision.   
  
“I'll take you to a coffee shop and you can try some,” Alfred blurted. “I'll pay, so you can get anything you want.”  
  
Arthur narrowed his eyes and Alfred thought, _his angry face is really cute!_ Followed closely by, _I wonder if he would consider that a compliment_ The reasonable part of his brain then decided to make itself known after remaining absent for the past few months with _probably not, just shut up and smile._ So he tilted his head to the side and gave his boss his best I'm-totally-your-favorite-person-please-give-me-what-I-want grin.  
  
“If I agree, will you quit being so bright and noisy?” Arthur asked, reaching for his teacup slowly.  
  
“Yes,” Alfred said automatically and his hands twitched at his sides as he reigned in the need to pump his fist into the air in victory.  
  
“Fine, then,” Arthur mumbled, bringing the teacup to his lips and taking a careful sip. His expression calmed, though the crease between his eyebrows that always told Alfred when something was bothering him didn't go away entirely.  
  
“Really?” Alfred asked, tamping down on the urge to smooth the crease with his thumb.  
  
“Yes. We shall go to a coffee house of your choice during lunch and we shall settle, once and for all, that coffee tastes like burnt motor oil and that tea is better.”  
  
Alfred knew he should say something. Like _Thank you!_ or _Hell yes!_ or perhaps a cheeky _I'll show you! Coffee is WAY better than that stupid leaf water you drink!_ But his chest was getting all fluttery and his head was kind of blurry and couldn't think right, so he ended up saying, “It's a date!”   
  
Arthur gave him a startled look as his blush increased, but Alfred just spun on his heal and danced out of the office before he could dwell on his choice of words.


	13. Chapter 13

Upon their arrival at Alfred's coffee house of choice, Starbucks, it was discovered that Arthur didn't actually know what anything on the menu _was_ , and so Alfred was delegated to the duty of ordering for them both.  
  
“I'll have a grande extra hot soy with extra foam, split shot with a half squirt of vanilla and a half squirt of cinnamon, a half packet of splenda, oh and put that in a venti cup and fill up the room with extra whipped cream with carmel and chocolate sauce drizzled on top. And he'll have, let's see, make him a five shot venti, two fifths decaf, ristretto shot, one pump vanilla, one pump hazelnut, breve, one sugar in the raw, with whip, carmel drizzle on top, free poured, four pump mocha.”  
  
“Wait- _what!?_ ” Arthur sputtered, hands gesturing in the air beside him as he worked himself into a rage. “I don't even know what half of that _means_ , and I'm absolutely certain you just ordered me half a cup of sugar!”  
  
Alfred, who stood beside him, raised an eyebrow. He'd assumed Arthur might want to cool it on the caffeine, since he was hopped up on caffeinated headache pills already and Alfred had seen Arthur in hyper mode – he was actually mostly like his usual self, with a little more manic glee thrown into his insults and a larger propensity to misplace all of his stuff. And so he'd added what he thought to be an appropriate amount of extra flavors to cover up the fact that it would taste less delicious on principle. It was, according to Arthur – although Alfred was fairly certain he was lying – Arthur's first time at a coffee house, after all, and he didn't know all the hidden secrets of coffee like Alfred did. But perhaps it was a bit much for a first timer? It seemed Arthur was more concerned about the sugar than he really should be if he was leaving the ordering to Alfred. But the American shrugged and turned back to the barista behind the counter, intent on toning it down a bit.   
  
“Okay, scratch that second order. He'll have an iced venti six shot two thirds half-caf, two half pump _sugar free_ cinnamon dolce, two half pump _sugar free_ vanilla, one pump _sugar free_ gingerbread, splash of one percent milk, two splenda, three honey packets, stirred in with the espresso first to melt, light ice, light whip, with cinnamon dolce and nutmeg sprinkles.”  
  
He turned to find Arthur glaring at him. “You can take your sugar free and shove it up your-”  
  
“We're in public, sir,” Alfred interrupted. When Arthur continued to glare, Alfred heaved a great sigh of frustration and tried again. “Okay, scratch that too. He'll have a decaf grande, half soy, half _low fat_ , iced vanilla, double-shot, gingerbread cappuccino, extra dry, light ice, with one Sweet-n'-Low and one NutraSweet.”  
  
“No,” Arthur said emphatically, crossing his arms. “If I can't understand what you're ordering, then you _can't order it_.”  
  
“What do you want, then?” Alfred asked, throwing his hands up in the air. He wondered briefly if the only reason Arthur had agreed to this was so that he could make Alfred's life even more difficult, to hold victory out in his hand, just in front of Alfred's face and wiggle it enticingly before yanking it out of reach. Arthur was mean enough to do it, Alfred didn't doubt.   
  
“You tell me to order you something and then you veto everything I say,” Alfred continued, giving Arthur a look that said, _stop it._  
  
“Just get me something _simple_ ,” Arthur said, tone indicating that he was quickly losing his patience. “In five words or less, or I'm going back to the office and you _and_ your coffee can suck my-”  
  
“Okay, okay,” Alfred said, cutting Arthur off. Who knew the man got so foul mouthed when he was hungover? Alfred added another negative personality trait to Caffeinated-Arthur's growing list. Taking him out in public was something Alfred would have to be careful about in the future. Alfred sighed. “Cold or hot?”  
  
Arthur hummed impatiently, hand going to rub at his head again. “Hot.”  
  
“He'll have a caffé misto.”  
  
The barista nodded and put in the order and Alfred guided a suspiciously silent Arthur to the end of the counter to wait for their drinks. Alfred raised an eyebrow at him when he looked up.  
  
“You were counting, weren't you?” Alfred asked, mouth twitching into a smirk.  
  
“Oh, belt up, you twit,” Arthur growled. “What did you get me, anyway?”  
  
“Caffè misto, otherwise known as _café au lait_ or _café con leche_ ,” Alfred said easily, reaching up to take a sip of his coffee, which had had a full three minutes head start on Arthur's since the man had been so picky about it. “Basically, coffee with milk.”  
  
“Oh,” Arthur said, glancing behind at the baristas before stuffing his hands in his jacket pocket. “Sounds sufficiently simple.”  
  
Alfred smiled.


	14. Chapter 14

As they rode the elevator up to the ninth floor, the soft pinging the only background noise to be heard, Alfred put all of his effort into keeping the grin off his face. Arthur stood beside him, turned slightly away as if the inside of the elevator wasn't well polished metal and Alfred _couldn't_ see his blush through the reflection. His arms were crossed and his shoulders were hunched just slightly, enough to tell Alfred not to attempt conversation.  
  
Alfred rocked back on his heels.  
  
“So...” he said.  
  
Arthur was silent. It was a _telling_ silence, one that Alfred chose to ignore completely.  
  
“That cup of tea you ordered to wash the taste of 'rancid skunk ass' out of your mouth,” Alfred continued, making air quotes. “Wasn't actually tea, was it?”   
  
He watched as Arthur twitched, his face an embarrassed and frustrated scrunch in the reflection. Alfred managed to keep his delight down to a simple, sunny smile instead of the full out shit-eating grin he wanted to show.  
  
“There was no teabag string,” Alfred said by way of explanation.  
  
Arthur hunched further into himself and Alfred sighed happily into the silence of the Englishman's guilt.  
  
“You know you could have one every day if you let me get a-”   
  
Arthur whirled on him, glare so fierce that it cut Alfred off immediately. His eyebrows were scrunched together in a deep frown, his mouth was downturned and the glint in his eye told Alfred that if looks could kill, the American would be dead ten times over by now. And if Alfred had anything else to fucking say, he'd better think real fucking hard about it before opening that fool mouth of his because he was _this close_ to snapping and you _know_ what happened last time.  
  
Alfred sniffed delicately. “You smell like coffee.”

Arthur snapped.


	15. Chapter 15

Alfred had never considered the possibility that he would be assaulted in the elevator of the Kirkland Publishing building, let alone by the president and owner himself.  
  
Arthur's hand slammed into his shoulder, pushing Alfred forcefully against the side of the elevator wall. His back hit with a dull thud and Alfred felt his head crack against the metal as Arthur's hand slid over to grab at his tie. Arthur yanked him forward and scowled as Alfred tried to focus his vision.  
  
“You and your goddamn coffee,” Arthur growled. “You just can't leave well enough alone, can you?”  
  
Alfred attempted to formulate an answer, but he kept getting hung up on the way Arthur's breath was falling in nearly ragged pants from his parted lips. It might have been indicative of wrath to anyone else in the building, but Alfred kind of just thought it looked sexy.   
  
Which was not where his thoughts needed to be at the moment.  
  
“If you just let me get a coffee machine-” Alfred started, convinced the simplest argument was best.  
  
“Enough with the coffee machine,” Arthur hissed, pulling Alfred's face closer to his with the tie still held tightly in his hand. “If you would just drink tea like a _normal person_ -”  
  
“Tea is gross and I'm completely normal for liking coffee!” Alfred argued, face so close to Arthur's that their foreheads were almost touching. “And there is an entire nation across the ocean that will back me up.”  
  
“You're not _in_ America,” Arthur threw back at him, his other hand coming up to grab at Alfred's collar. “You're in England and we bloody drink _tea_ here!”  
  
“That is not an argument,” Alfred said. “Plenty of you drink coffee, I see it in your grocery stores all the time! You have Starbucks for fuck's sake! You can't honestly claim that not one single British person drinks coffee! I bet you horde your teabags and set them out for company so you look all gentlemanly and respectably British on the outside, but you secretly drink coffee all the time! I just read an article that said you people actually drink coffee _more_ than tea and it was from a totally legit site on the internet so-”  
  
Alfred would've gone on, he had a whole slew of arguments lined up to combat Arthur's insistence on tea and almost all of them had halfway legitimate sources he could cite. He was definitely ready to pull every single one of them out and throw them at Arthur's tea-loving face if he refused to see reason. But he never got the chance, because Arthur, genius that he always claimed to be, had abruptly discovered the one and only way to shut Alfred up _(besides kicking him in the balls, that is)_.  
  
He kissed him. Square on the mouth and with enough force to steal the words from Alfred's tongue as his eyes widened. Arthur's hand slid from collar to neck, around to the back so he could pull Alfred more fully into the kiss and Alfred watched Arthur's furrowed eyebrows for a slight moment before he thought _oh, fuck it,_ and let his eyes slip closed. He tilted his head into Arthur and ran his tongue over the Englishman's bottom lip, taking full advantage of Arthur's gasp to deepen the kiss.   
  
Alfred's hands came up to grasp at Arthur's sides, fingers tangling in the pressed and ironed shirt as he began to pull it out of Arthur's pants, revealing skin by inches. Arthur pulled away for a brief moment to gasp, mouth falling on the corner of Alfred's mouth as he let out a harsh exhale. Alfred nudged Arthur's chin with his own before finding his mouth again, letting his fingers find the warm skin of Arthur's back as he pressed their hips together. Arthur's fingers were slowly working the knot in Alfred's tie and just when the American thought it would slip free, Arthur used it to yank Alfred forward, slamming him back into the elevator wall with enough force to make Alfred gasp. Arthur bit his lip in the aftermath and Alfred scowled.  
  
“Yeah?” he asked, tightening his grip on Arthur's hips and spinning him. He slammed Arthur against the wall then, giving as good as he got, and let his lips roam over Arthur's neck as he listened to him pant. Alfred pressed his hips to Arthur's and ground down slowly as his hands roamed over the small of Arthur's back, arching him into his thrusts.  
  
“Oh, fuck,” Arthur swore, tugging viciously at Alfred's tie until it came off, jerking the American roughly to the side. Arthur's hands pushed at Alfred's jacket impatiently, pulling at the sleeves and lapels in frustration as Alfred's hand snuck out to hit the emergency stop button.  
  
Alfred slid his knee up into Arthur's crotch, stilling his motions as the man arched up into him, head tilted back as his hands pulled at Alfred's shirt. Alfred grinned and planted his mouth on Arthur's, stealing each and every exhale for himself as he let his tongue slide across the man's teeth. Arthur was grinding down into his leg with desperate motions and Alfred could feel his own pleasure beginning to brim as he did the same, cock hard and leaking as it pressed against Arthur's leg through his pants.  
  
“Ah- huh,” Alfred gasped, breaking away from Arthur's mouth as he felt himself tip over the edge, vision going white as his climax hit him.  
  
As his hips continued to jerk softly into Arthur's leg, riding out his climax to the fullest, his thoughts coalesced in a brief moment of clarity and he couldn't help but think, through the haze of pleasure and sated bliss, that this was an odd turn of events. He could count the number of times he'd dry humped himself to orgasm on the fingers of one hand, and to think, now he'd done it in the elevator of the Kirkland Publishing building with his boss. But hey. Wasn't life just full of surprises?  
  
He was barely able to focus his vision again when he felt an abrupt push at his shoulder, knocking him back and tipping him enough that he fell onto his ass in the middle of the elevator. He was about to mutter something about manners and giving a guy a chance to catch his breath when his lap was suddenly filled with an agitated, cussing Arthur and his still very hard, very prominent erection.  
  
Oh. Whoops.  
  
“Fucking Americans,” was all the warning he got.


	16. Chapter 16

Alfred sat just outside the security office, suit jacket missing, tie hanging loose and untied about his neck, a tissue held steadily to his nose by his right hand. He was missing a shoe, his left one to be exact, and his cowlick was no longer the only strand of hair sticking straight up.   
  
Arthur, who sat beside him, looked only marginally better.  
  
“I'm sure he won't tell anyone, sir,” Alfred assured, his voice only slightly nasal. “And you've got the only evidence right here,” he added, tapping the videotape sitting between them.  
  
Arthur glanced down at it, then back at the door he'd just come out of.  
  
“Oh, fuck me.”  
  
Alfred dutifully ignored the implications of that curse, smiling as he held the tissue to his nose.


	17. Chapter 17

The following morning, much to Alfred's pleasant surprise, there was a brand new coffee machine in the break room, switch turned on and puttering away slowly as coffee dripped, drop by glorious drop, into the pot below. Next to it sat another, more complicated looking machine that likely accomplished something a bit more fancy than the regular machine that Alfred was used to, but the America wasn't exactly sure _what_. Either way, it was magnificent. Alfred spent a good five minutes straight staring as his mouth slowly split into a grin that nearly broke his face, and when he heard shuffling behind him, he very deliberately turned his head so that the full force of his manic glee was directed at his boss.  
  
Arthur blanched, fumbled with the book he held and acted as if there was absolutely no trace of a blush gracing his cheeks at the moment.   
  
“It was on sale,” Arthur mumbled, attempting nonchalance. “And the man at the store was so goddamn _persistent_ ,” he continued in a growl, gaze narrowed, “that I couldn't very well say no, considering the deal.”  
  
Alfred turned then, let his entire body face Arthur as the grin refused to leave his face. His stomach had erupted in a pleasant explosion of butterflies, giddy and happy and hyper, and his hands itched to grab at the man responsible for his euphoria. Grab him and smother him with his elation and hugging would definitely be involved and, since he was friends with Francis, possibly a bit of groping. Especially after the (new) Elevator Incident.  
  
“And through extensive questioning, I managed to learn that the first, third and fifth floors have coffee machines, which would only imply that the seventh have one as well and so the purchase wasn't even really based on monetary reasons at all, but the need for simple _symmetry_ in the building, the need for order that every workplace must have to function effectively.”  
  
To be completely honest, Alfred wanted to fling himself at the man and just kiss him breathless, but he was so busy being completely absorbed in Arthur's endearing attempt at denial that he kind of just stood there, fidgeting.   
  
“And regardless of the timing this purchase may have with any other completely irrelevant happenings during the past month or so, I can assure you that it is mere coincidence and nothing else. I was not swayed by anything you may have said or done or- or anything that anybody else said or did! And I most certainly did not buy it for anyone's sake but the company's, and mine – but not because I want to drink coffee or anything.”  
  
Alfred took a step closer, wondering if Arthur always rambled like this when he was nervous. It was sort of cute to watch – and amusing, too. The smile would honestly not leave his face and he was getting closer and closer to just saying _fuck it_ and jumping the man. It had worked for him yesterday and he had a brand new coffee machine to show for it.  
  
“And at any rate, it's not like I bought it for _you_ or anything ridiculous like that!” Arthur finally managed, cheeks completely red by now. “So don't get the wrong idea and start having wild thoughts about frappuccinos or mocha lattes or cafe au laits!”  
  
There was a moment where the only sound was that of Arthur's agitated breathing, long and drawn out and very nearly more awkward than the elevator - which was saying something, because yeah, Alfred still had bruises in awkward places and his mind had a habit of rerunning that little incident at completely inappropriate times and-  
  
“You are the best boss ever,” Alfred said into the silence, grin still in full force.  
  
“Did you hear a single thing I said?” Arthur asked viciously, eyes narrowed.   
  
“No,” Alfred answered, because he really hadn't. “Let me get you a cup of coffee to celebrate!”  
  
He turned and took down two cups from the cupboard, pouring coffee into them both and leaving room to add in both the sugar and the cream that had also been put out next to the new machine. He heard Arthur mutter something that sounded suspiciously like, “Celebrate what, your lack of attention span?” but decided to ignore the comment in favor of enjoying the smell of freshly brewed coffee.  
  
He handed Arthur one of the cups and kept his giddy excitement hidden the best he could when the man just scowled and took it. Alfred brought his cup up to his mouth, blew twice across the top of the steaming liquid and then took the first sip, eyes closing as the rich taste of it hit his tongue. When he opened his eyes, it was to find Arthur fidgeting again, looking anywhere but at Alfred's face.  
  
“How...” he started, green eyes glancing toward Alfred's face for half a second before flitting away again. “How does it taste?”  
  
And Alfred just lifted his cup in a sort of salute and said, “Tastes like victory, sir.”  
  
Arthur stood there for half a beat before he scowled, slammed his untouched coffee cup onto the countertop and stomped off, British cussing fading slowly as he went. Alfred took another sip of coffee and sighed happily.  
  
Totally worth it.


	18. Chapter 18

Let it not be said that Alfred's decision to be cheeky implied that he wasn't properly appreciative of both the coffee machine and the implications of Arthur's stammering inquiry.   
  
He was. And he had every intention of showing Arthur just how much. It would just have to wait until the following day, is all.  
  
So the next day, Alfred was in the break room fiddling with the complicated coffee machine when he heard Arthur come in. As it turned out, the second machine Arthur had bought was actually an espresso machine with a helpful little part that prepared milk specific to lattes or other coffee drinks, and Alfred was just as excited to try this one out as he had been for the other one. By the time he'd gotten a cup prepared and was considering how best to top it off, Arthur had stashed his briefcase and other work things in his office, and Alfred could hear him rummaging around near his bookcase through the thin walls of the break room.  
  
Whipped cream seemed like a good idea, so Alfred opened the cupboard and took out one of the cans that had been stashed there, holding the cup steady as he began to layer the top of the coffee with healthy amount of whipped cream. He was just about at the peak of his masterpiece when Arthur walked in abruptly, startling him just enough to tip his tower of whipped cream right onto his hand. He brought it up and turned, eyes landing on his boss as he stuck the whipped creamed digits into his mouth and licked them clean. Arthur's eyes widened a bit, gaze locked onto Alfred's mouth.  
  
Alfred was about to grin around his fingers, because Arthur was cute when he stared, when the taste of the cream actually registered in his mind. His own eyes widened and he slowly slid his fingers free from his mouth as he smiled.  
  
“Dude,” he said in awe, grabbing the can with his clean hand and holding it up for inspection. “This stuff tastes like caramel!”  
  
“Re-really?” Arthur asked, only stumbling slightly.  
  
“Yeah!” Alfred said with excitement, tipping the can and putting a healthy dollop onto his finger. “Here, try,” he said, holding his finger out to Arthur.  
  
His boss looked at the finger dubiously, mouth twitching into some sort of half hidden grimace before he said, “I don't think-”  
  
“Oh, right,” Alfred said, realizing he'd just had those fingers in his own mouth. Despite the fact that they'd been almost completely intimate with each other a few days ago, Arthur was still coming to terms with how best to deal with it, apparently. “Sorry 'bout that.”   
  
He stuck the finger in his mouth and sucked it clean quickly before tossing the can into that hand and grabbing Arthur's own with his clean one. He brought it up and squirted a large blob of whipped cream on Arthur's finger and, hand still wrapped around Arthur's wrist, gestured for him to try it, smiling widely. “Come on,” he said. “It's delicious.”  
  
Arthur looked at it with that same nervous expression, this time with a healthy amount of dread mixed in.   
  
“I didn't buy it so that _I_ could eat it,” he muttered, then blinked and jerked his head up to look at Alfred. “Not that- I didn't- I mean I just bought it because the box told me to, not because I thought you'd like caramel flavored whipped cream or anything. It said it was necessary for this very specific drink that the – uh – man at the store said was a speciality of this particular machine and so I had to buy the caramel stuff because the regular kind wouldn't work and that was the only reason I even went to the store in the first place, because the man is a professional and obviously knows what he's talking about and I couldn't very well disregard his directives-”  
  
Alfred rolled his eyes in amusement and brought Arthur's hand back toward him, quickly sticking the man's finger in his mouth and sucking it clean. He ran his tongue along the bottom of the finger, feeling the rough tip of the pad before letting it pop free, noticing with quite a bit of amusement that Arthur had gone abruptly silent. Alfred slowly let go of Arthur's hand and smiled, wondering why the Englishman would get so embarrassed over a little licking with everything that had happened between them. It was kind of cute.   
  
“Yum,” Alfred said, and watched as Arthur blinked slowly. After a few elongated seconds, Arthur turned and walked out of the room, hand still held aloft.  
  
“I'll leave it on the counter if you wanna try it out later, sir!” Alfred called out after him.


	19. Chapter 19

“Holy mother of _god!_ ” Alfred yelled, dropping the piece of the coffee machine he was holding with a loud clang into the sink.  
  
He shook his hand as the finger that had accidentally fallen victim to the scalding hot water within started to throb with that deep and seemingly endless ache that came with burns to any part of your skin. When the stinging in his finger got to be too much, he stuck the digit in his mouth.   
  
Alfred dimly recognized the abrupt scrape of a heavy chair and the quick footsteps of someone running toward the break room, but he only looked up when Arthur was looking wildly at him through the doorway.  
  
“What?” he asked, breathing a little heavy. “What happened?”  
  
Alfred gave him large puppy eyes. “Ah buh mah finguh!” he cried woefully.  
  
Arthur blinked at him. “What?”  
  
Alfred slid the digit from his mouth and was almost too distracted by the pain to notice the way Arthur's eyes followed the movement. Almost.  
  
“I burnt my finger,” he repeated, letting as much agony leak into his tone as he could. To be completely honest, the wound didn't hurt _that_ bad – the hurt was beginning to ease already, but if Arthur was going to stride in here all Knight in Shining Armor-esque, then he might as well play it up.  
  
“How on earth did you manage that?” Arthur asked with a scowl as Alfred put the finger back in his mouth, watching his boss for any reaction.  
  
“Ahs tyin tah keehn dah singhy,” Alfred lamented, gesturing to the machine.  
  
“Oh, for fuck's sake!” Arthur muttered heatedly, storming over to Alfred's side. “Take your fingers out of your bloody mouth before you speak!”  
  
Arthur grabbed a hold of Alfred's wrist and tugged the hand gently away from the man's mouth in direct contrast to his tone, guiding the limb into the sink as he reached over and turned on the cold tap. Alfred let him do as he pleased, delighted that the man was standing so close to him.  
  
“You suck- sucking on it won't do any good,” Arthur continued grouchily, and Alfred could detect the hint of a blush staining his cheeks even though his boss kept his head down and seemingly focused on Alfred's finger. “You need cold water for a burn,” Arthur finished, holding Alfred's hand steady under the stream of cool water, palm up so that the burned skin was being hit directly  
  
Alfred admitted to himself that it felt good, but he was also aware that the fact that Arthur's hip was pressed snuggly against his definitely had something to do with that assessment. Alfred smiled and curled his finger experimentally, noticing that the area that was burned was a bit stiff. His other fingers felt fine, however, and he curled them so that they wrapped loosely around Arthur's thumb while his pointer stayed under the water.  
  
He watched Arthur's face as he did it and was pleased to note that his cheeks darkened visibly as a result. He was about to comment on it, or thank his boss for taking such good care of him in his time of need, when Arthur abruptly let go of his hand and slipped it free from his loose grip. He backed up and Alfred watched him as he avoided meeting his gaze.  
  
“Well- You just- Keep it under the water until the pain fades and then put- put a plaster on it,” Arthur muttered, jerking his head in a rough nod to emphasize his instructions and then hurrying out of the room. “And be more careful next time!” he called from his office.  
  
Alfred just stood there, blinking at where his boss used to be. “What's a plaster?” he murmured.


	20. Chapter 20

“Alfred, where are those papers that Ludwig sent up to get my signature on!?”  
  
Alfred, who had just returned from lunch with two large coffee cups in hand, let his bag slide carefully off his shoulder and strolled into Arthur's office. He brought the cup in his left hand up to his face and inhaled, enjoying the sent that enveloped his senses, still fresh and warm and untouched. Then he pointed with it at the general vicinity of Arthur's messy desk.  
  
“I put it on your desk, sir,” he said.  
  
Arthur turned, banging his elbow on the corner of his desk and cutting off a swear half-formed. He rifled through the files scattering his desk before throwing his hands up and finally raising his head to look at Alfred.  
  
“And I'm telling you I can't find...them...” he trailed off, eyes glued to the coffee in Alfred's hands as he took another sniff. He just loved that smell, he couldn't help himself.  
  
“Yep,” Alfred said. “Put 'em there this morning, right on top of those files you requested from What's-His-Face. Y'know, the Cuban guy.”  
  
Arthur was silent, mouth slightly ajar as Alfred gave him a knowing look and licked his lips in anticipation of tasting his coffee. “Its-” Arthur tried, head jerking to the side. “It's not here,” he said stiffly.  
  
“Betcha it is,” Alfred sang.   
  
Arthur looked up with a furious glare on his face and Alfred just gave him a smile.  
  
“I haven't seen it today, so that means I _didn't get it, Alfred._ ”  
  
“I bet you a cup of coffee it's on your desk right where I say it is,” Alfred challenged, holding up the second coffee he held, the one he hadn't been smelling since he'd gotten into Arthur's office.   
  
Arthur's eyebrow, the left one, twitched. Alfred took that as a yes to his challenge and slid around to the other side of the desk. He could definitely find it from the side he had been on, but that would be less invasive of Arthur's personal space, and the man got all twitchy when Alfred got into his personal space. Sure enough, Arthur's chair scooted to the side as Alfred approached.  
  
The American set down the coffee that was intended for Arthur, whether or not he won the bet, and pointed to the mess in front of them. “Today's paperwork goes: mail, letter from that crazy guy who wants you to recognize him as a professional author by signing that certificate he made, your monthly issue of Modern Drunkard, a pile of sticky notes cut into the shapes of donkeys I found stuck to the inside of the elevator, editing notes on that Spanish book, the papers from Ludwig, a copy of 100 reasons you should drink coffe – courtesy of yours truly, and the three books you asked for to check the work on that essay you keep telling everyone is _complete and utter bullocks_.”  
  
Alfred put his hand on his hip and nodded as a sort of punctuation to his list and patted himself on the back. He'd even done that last bit in a British accent. Then he leaned over and sifted through the pile of papers on Arthur's desk, both from his previous list and a smattering of other things Arthur had obviously thrown there himself, and tugged out the sought after pile of papers with a triumphant, “Ah-hah!”  
  
He handed them over, or at least tried to; Arthur didn't take them. Arthur wasn't even looking at them. His cheeks were red and he looked a little upset and a bit like he was about to explode and Alfred cocked his head to the side, wondering what he'd done this time.  
  
He brought his coffee back up to his nose and inhaled as he waited, wiggling the papers in his hand.  
  
“Stop that,” Arthur said lowly.  
  
“What?” Alfred asked.  
  
Arthur shook his head to the side jerkily and snatched the papers out of Alfred's hand, slamming them onto the desk and pointing an angry finger into the American's face. “We have a coffee machine,” he accused.  
  
Alfred grinned. “And did I tell you how awesome you are for getting it? Cause you are,” he said, holding up his free hand. “High five.”  
  
Arthur's glare did not lighten, nor did he give Alfred the high five he'd requested. He merely pointed his finger at the drink in Alfred's hand, instead of his face.  
  
“Then why are you drinking that?” Arthur asked, and Alfred could tell by his tone that he was really asking _Don't you_ like _the machine I got especially for you because I've got a huge crush and I don't know how to express myself properly?_  
  
“Oh,” Alfred said, glancing at the cup in his hand before gracing Arthur with an easy smile. He picked up the second cup and held it out. “That's because I need to teach you how to drink coffee before you make it in our new machine!”  
  
Arthur's frown lessened a bit as his eyebrows raised in slight confusion. Alfred wiggled the cup slightly until Arthur took it, giving Alfred a look like he was a little bit daft.  
  
“I know very well how to drink coffee,” Arthur said grumpily.  
  
“And how's that?” Alfred asked.  
  
“You bring it to your mouth and drink it,” Arthur answered scathingly, then raised the cup to show Alfred just how well he knew how to drink coffee.  
  
“Ah, ah,” Alfred said quickly, holding up a hand to stop Arthur. When he lowered the cup with a frown, Alfred continued. “It can't just start goin' at it just like that. Coffee is like sex.”  
  
Arthur's cheeks bloomed with heat. “Wh-what?”  
  
“Coffee. Is like sex,” Alfred repeated pointedly. “It's all about the _foreplay_.”  
  
Alfred gave his boss a knowing look and Arthur's cheeks heated even _more._ He looked away for a moment, hands tightening around his cup, until Alfred started speaking again.  
  
“So you've got your coffee,” Alfred said, voice dropping to a murmur. “And it's your first cup of the day.”  
  
“Not yours,” Arthur argued, swinging his gaze back around.   
  
“But yours,” Alfred said with a wink, not abandoning his soft tone. “So just feel it. Close your eyes.”  
  
“What?” Arthur asked, deadpan.  
  
“Close your eyes,” Alfred repeated again, softly urging until Arthur did as he was told. Alfred smiled and watched Arthur from beneath heavy lids, almost but not quite closed.   
  
“Close your eyes and just think about tasting it. Anticipate the flavor hitting your tongue, washing over your senses. Now smell it,” Alfred murmured, and watched as Arthur opened his eyes just enough to guide the cup to his nose. “Just a little bit,” Alfred corrected, and followed Arthur's motions as he inhaled the sent of the coffee steaming out of the small hole in the plastic cover.  
  
“Now pull away,” Alfred said, moving his cup away from his nose. Arthur popped an eyebrow at him and Alfred smiled slowly, waiting for the returning scowl. “Kind of a tease, right?” he asked lowly. “Flirt a little.”  
  
Alfred raised his cup again with a murmured, “Up-” and watched as Arthur followed, inhaling a bit longer this time, before saying, “-and down.”  
  
Alfred exhaled out loudly, letting his pleasure show as his shoulders relaxed. “Up-” he whispered, and brought the cup up. “Longer this time,” he hummed. “ _Deeper._ Let it wrap you in it's embrace as it takes you.”  
  
Arthur's breaths were getting a bit shaky as they exhaled, and Alfred smiled. “Now, you see that foam on the plastic?” he asked softly.   
  
Arthur hummed in agreement, distracted.  
  
“Lick it _slowly_ ,” Alfred told him.  
  
He demonstrated, running his tongue smoothly along the edge of his cup before letting it dart back into his mouth, humming in pleasure as he did so. He watched Arthur do the same, saw the heat in his cheeks at the hint of taste, not quite enough to satisfy.   
  
“Can you feel it in your mouth?” Alfred asked lowly. “Let it slide across your tongue into your throat, let it consume you, flood your senses with taste.”  
  
Arthur let out a breathy exhale before closing his mouth around the foam, and Alfred's eyes never left the secret enjoyment written across the Englishman's face. “Now we drink,” Alfred murmured.  
  
They both let the plastic of their cups near their lips, and Alfred whispered, “Don't rush it. This your first cup, your first time, so do it slowly, _carefully_.”  
  
Alfred watched as Arthur let his tongue peak out, running it over the bottom edge of his upper lip, then he whispered, “And _drink._ ”  
  
They both tilted their cups slowly, letting the hot liquid pour over their tongues tentatively before taking a longer, deeper sip. Alfred let out a low groan for added effect, wanting to push Arthur closer to the edge, and he was surprised to hear Arthur's answering moan as he brought the cup away from his mouth. The Englishman licked his lips and brought it up again, and Alfred watched with great satisfaction as his boss thoroughly enjoyed his first cup of the day, complete with sound effects and a pleasurably intimate expression across his handsome face.  
  
Arthur's eyes opened after his third drink and he found Alfred staring at him intensely. He swallowed quickly before jerking his hand down, spilling slightly as the cup in his hand jostled too much. He coughed to cover his embarrassment, but his face reddened again and Alfred knew better. The American smiled easily and leaned in close, stopping when his lips were a breath away from his boss's.  
  
“What are you-” Arthur tried.  
  
“Did you enjoy that, sir?” Alfred asked.  
  
“I- That is to say, you- Ah...” Arthur stuttered, trying to back up but finding his chair limited the amount of space he could put between himself and Alfred.  
  
“You have to ease yourself into it slowly, tease your senses with just-there brushes of taste,” Alfred said smoothly, letting his fingertips trail over Arthur's arm teasingly. “Work yourself up into a frenzy of want and desire,” Alfred continued, leaning a fraction of a inch closer, almost touching. “And then, when your body is so taught with need that you think you can barely stand it, shaking with anticipation and longing and _hunger_ , you wrap your lips around that blessed heat and _drink_.”  
  
Alfred let that last word fall across Arthur's lips heatedly, sliding off to the side before pulling away entirely. Arthur tried to follow him for a fraction of a moment before catching himself and sitting back in his chair, flushed and embarrassed, twitchy and fidgeting with his coffee as he looked anywhere but at Alfred.  
  
“And that,” Alfred said lightly, “is how you enjoy a cup of coffee.”


	21. Chapter 21

Alfred let Arthur stew in his thoughts for the rest of the day, using his last break to run across town and get the last of the supplies he would need. Then, when they were nearing the of the work day and the building was beginning to sink into silence as everyone began to leave, Alfred poked his head around Arthur's office door and asked, “Sir?”  
  
Arthur, who was trying to finish up some editing before they both called it a day, glanced up. His mouth almost tilted into a smile before his boss seemed to remember himself and it twisted into a look of forced annoyance.   
  
“What is it?”  
  
Alfred came further into the room. “I was wondering if you wanted a cup of coffee before calling it a day?” Alfred asked.   
  
Arthur raised an eyebrow at him before shaking his head. “I already drank that sugary thing you got me this afternoon, Alfred, I don't think-”  
  
“But that was just a lesson, sir,” Alfred said, and watched Arthur place his pen down deliberately. “Now that I've taught you how to drink coffee, we should enjoy one together from our new machine!”  
  
Arthur gave him a look that was halfway annoyed and halfway defeated before he said, “Fine.”  
  
“Great!” Alfred said, smiling widely. “I'll go start a pot.”  
  
Alfred retreated into the break room and flipped the switch on the coffee machine, having already put it together before approaching Arthur. Then, in the time it took for the machine to actually make it, Alfred darted into the bathroom and changed into the outfit he'd brought with him for his thank you gift to Arthur. It didn't take him too long, but he folded his work clothes up neatly lest Arthur throw a fit about it, and then he peaked out the door to make sure Arthur hadn't wandered out of his office for any reason within the past five minutes.   
  
When the coast was clear, he slipped out of the bathroom and began assembling a tray with Arthur's coffee. Then he took a deep breath, let his patented smile lift his cheeks cheerfully and headed into his boss's office.  
  
It took a long couple seconds for Arthur to raise his head. When he did, Alfred was incredibly pleased to watch the pen fall from his slack fingers, his eyes widen as they roved up and down Alfred's body, and his mouth open just enough for his slightly rough exhale to stutter from his lips.  
  
Alfred had donned a waiter uniform to serve Arthur his coffe, but it was slightly different from the norm in that the only part he'd kept of the traditional uniform was the apron itself. He'd toyed around with the idea of cutting the collar off and keeping the tie, but he'd shrugged it off as unimportant. He had, however, managed to find a pair of cute little bear ears on a headband and had thrown those on for the hell of it. The tray he held in his hand was laden with an actual cup of coffee, a sugar bowl and a small pitcher of milk _(though to be completely honest, he really hoped these items would become irrelevant fairly soon)._  
  
He started forward after a sufficient pause, making his way to Arthur's side and setting the tray down on his desk in what little free space there was. Arthur followed him with his eyes, his body frozen where it was in his chair.   
  
“Your coffee, sir,” Alfred said, and let a smile work itself across his face when Arthur's breath hitched a bit, body turning slightly toward Alfred. “As you requested.”  
  
“What-” Arthur started, cutting himself off abruptly. “You-” he tried again, with little success.  
  
“Yes, sir?” Alfred asked, leaning closer just a bit and watching the steadily rising blush flow across his boss's cheeks with great amusement. “Do you need anything else?”  
  
“Uhm,” Arthur said.  
  
“Oh!” Alfred chimed, straightening a bit and looking at the tray. “I forgot a spoon; I'll go get one.”  
  
He turned and headed for the door, knowing full well that Arthur's eyes were on him as he presented his backside to the man. He grabbed the spoon he'd left deliberately on the counter of the lunchroom and hurried back, smile on his face as he came back to the desk to find Arthur relatively unmoved from his frozen postion. “Got it!” he said happily, setting it beside the cup on the tray.  
  
Arthur didn't move an inch, so Alfred took it upon himself to make the coffee for him. “Is this enough milk, sir?” he asked, pouring enough in to make it a light brown in color. “It can be a bit _stiff_ if you don't put enough in.”  
  
Arthur nodded rather distractedly, his gaze seemingly stuck somewhere around Alfred's hips. Alfred added the sugar, stirred it with the spoon he'd just retrieved and held the cup out for his boss. “Here you are, sir.”  
  
Arthur took it in his hands, still silent, and made to bring it to his mouth as if on autopilot. “Careful,” Alfred said, placing his hand on Arthur's. “It's hot. Let me blow it for you.”  
  
Alfred was very thankful Arthur's chair did not have armrests on them, because it made it much easier to slide onto the man's lap without spilling the coffee held between them. He took it from Arthur's hands, settled himself comfortably and blew a gentle breath across the hot liquid as he tried not to give into the urge to just start humping Arthur's crotch outright. He'd been anticipating this all day and was more than a little horny as a result, and if the hardness he felt through the thin fabric of his apron was any indication, his outfit had done it's job splendidly and Arthur was beginning to get just as excited about this as Alfred was.  
  
He blew across the coffee one more time and then offered it back to Arthur with a smile, only to find his boss was staring him right in the eye. His blush had lessened a bit and Alfred felt the distinct press of slender fingers at his hips as Arthur deliberately rested his hands there.   
  
“Put the cup down, Alfred,” Arthur said in a low voice, slightly rough but nonetheless demanding.  
  
Alfred did as he was told, leaning to the side and slightly forward into Arthur's lap as he strained to place the cup back on the desk without spilling, choosing to place it on the L curve of the desk; off to the side and out of the way. Just in case. When he settled onto his bosses lap once more, his arms went to the back of the chair and he slid himself comfortably close to Arthur as he waited for the man's next move.  
  
After a long pause, Arthur said, “You are wearing an apron.”  
  
“Yes,” Alfred answered, shifting his hips to grind slightly into Arthur's. The man's eyes closed for a brief moment and Alfred bit his lip. “I hear it's proper attire for waiters.”  
  
Arthur raised an eyebrow at him, even though his cheeks darkened slightly. “There's- there's nothing proper about your outfit,” he argued.  
  
Alfred just smiled, leaned closer and slid his hips tantalizingly against his boss, feet finding purchase on the floor on either side of the chair.  
  
“The whipped cream and the burnt finger,” Arthur said lowly, breath hitching when Alfred's grinding picked up in pace. “The- ah.... that whole thing where you literally had- _hng_ oral sex with your fucking coffee- haa _ah_...it was all- hng.”  
  
“Mmhmm,” Alfred agreed, dropping his mouth to Arthur's neck and licking a line up to his ear slowly.  
  
Arthur hummed deep in his throat and Alfred was sure that if he'd opened his mouth, it would've been a moan. Arthur's hands slid from where they rested on Alfred's hips, down to cup Alfred's bare ass and squeeze, parting his cheeks slightly as he did so. He turned his head toward Alfred and asked, “Are you sure?”   
  
Alfred let his breath skitter out on his exhale, straight into Arthur's ear, before he answered, “Wouldn't've come in here with nothin' but an apron on otherwise.” And he thrust his hips down, rubbing himself firmly against Arthur in an attempt to clearly show the man how far gone he was.  
  
“Well then,” Arthur said roughly, then stood abruptly and pushed Alfred onto the desk, and he was very glad indeed that he'd had the foresight to move the coffee out of the way Arthur stood, placed both hands on the desk and leaned in, lips going for Alfred's with no hesitance. Alfred let his mouth fall open under Arthur's assault, tongue dovetailing as their kiss deepened in intensity and Alfred was pushed back slightly from the force of it. Arthur's hands began to wander then, up Alfred's bare thighs and under his apron, fingers winding patterns on the insides of his thighs tortuously before wrapping around his cock and stealing the breath from his lungs. Alfred let his head drop back, away from Arthur's kiss, and enjoyed the sensation of long fingers pumping his cock, breath coming in rasps.  
  
Alfred heard the clink of a belt and pulled himself up straight to see Arthur undoing his pants one handed, eyes focused on Alfred's even as he tried to keep a steady rhythm with the hand that was jerking him off. Alfred leaned forward, hands going to help him with the fly, and then Arthur's pants were around his ankles and he was stepping out of them as fast as he could, socks and shoes still on. Once freed, Arthur's lips found Alfred's again and his hand slowed on Alfred's cock, trailing up over his hip to trace the lines of the apron's ties.  
  
Alfred's hands moved back to untie it, but Arthur stopped him, breaking free from their kiss to murmur, “Leave it on, luv.”  
  
“Whatever you say, sir,” Alfred mumbled, letting his mouth quirk up into a smirk when the comment made Arthur growl before claiming his lips roughly again. The kiss ended just as abruptly and Arthur backed off, fingers trailing across Alfred's thighs as he backed away and sat heavily in his chair, legs spread as his erection lay full and hard against his lower stomach. Alfred let his eyes trail down and he licked his lower lip as his hand slipped into the front pocket of his apron. His fingers closed around the small bottle he'd placed there and he brought it out slowly, eyes still on Arthur's cock, and held it out.  
  
Arthur hummed in appreciation and took the bottle of lube from Alfred's hand, then crooked his finger at him and beckoned. Alfred grinned and obeyed, straddling him with ease as Arthur poured lube onto his fingertips. Alfred leaned forward, lips ghosting over Arthur's cheek as he lifted his ass slightly, waiting for Arthur to take the hint. Cool fingers circled his entrance twice before a slick digit slid into him, thrusting in and out shallowly as Alfred closed his eyes and pressed his mouth to the side of Arthur's head, breathing in the scent of his hair.  
  
The finger left him only to be replaced by two, scissoring slowly until the pain started to fade into that familiar ache that drove him crazy. A particularly hard thrust had Arthur's fingers finding his prostate and as they brushed against it, Alfred let his mouth open in a moan, hips thrusting back to meet the fingers, hand tightening where they held on to Arthur's shirt. He was ready, he was, but god he wanted Arthur to do that again and-  
  
“Arthur- _please_ ,” Alfred murmured, lips pressed against the shell of his ear and not entirely certain exactly _what_ he was asking for.   
  
But Arthur hummed in response and Alfred felt the fingers slip free reluctantly, trailing across his cheek as they went to grip his hips.   
  
“Hold on, I have to-” Arthur mumbled, pushing Alfred back a bit so he could get a hand in between them. Alfred glanced down with glazed eyes and watched Arthur pump his own cock, slicking himself up and letting a groan slip from his mouth as he did so. Alfred's hand slid down to take over, brushing Arthur's out of the way entirely, and Arthur let him do it, arching into him as Alfred coated the man's cock in lube. When he'd waited long enough, he guided Arthur to his entrance and let go, sinking down slowly as Arthur's hands came up to grip at him.  
  
“Oh, shit,” Arthur hissed, slumping forward to bury his face in Alfred's neck, mouthing the skin there as Alfred arched back, ecstasy coursing through him as he felt Arthur's cock bury itself inside him to the hilt. Once he was seated, Arthur stilled, breathing hard into Alfred's skin until Alfred rocked his hips experimentally.   
  
“Ah- _ah_ ,” Alfred called, head tilting back as he gripped at Arthur's shoulders. The man below him tightened his hold on Alfred's hips and lifted him up as best he could, but Alfred took the hint and moved, up and up before sinking back down slowly, loving the burn and the stretch as Arthur snapped his hips at the last moment.  
  
Alfred started a rhythm then, bobbing up and down as he used the back of the chair and Arthur's shoulders for leverage, swiveling his hips when he felt Arthur sink in to the fullest before raising himself back up again. Arthur guided him with his hands and bit and licked at any skin he could reach with his mouth, groans and cussing muffled in Alfred's chest and neck as he met Alfred's downward thrusts with those of his own.  
  
Alfred nearly saw stars when Arthur suddenly slid down in his seat, changing the angle and intensity of his thrusts and striking that spot deep inside Alfred with rather brutal efficiency. Alfred gasped for air on his inhales and stuttered on his exhales, limbs quivering as pleasure shot through every part of his body. It was all he could do to hold on to himself.  
  
“Oh, god, like- _uh_ , like _that_.”  
  
Arthur grunted in response and thrust harder, faster and Alfred held on for a few sporadic moments before the coiling heat in his belly began to overflow and his vision started to go white. “I'm- ohshi- _Arthur_ , I'm- ah!”  
  
“Go on, luv. _Alfred_ ,” Arthur whispered, strained and low, and at the sound of his name, Alfred came, his shout halfway muffled by his inability to draw proper breath. He felt the warmth of his release smear against his and Arthur's bellies as Arthur continued to thrust into him. He slumped forward, his grip on Arthur's shoulders loosening as he felt Arthur stiffen and call Alfred's name, face buried in Alfred's shoulder as he rode out his own climax.  
  
Alfred lay where he was, gulping in air as he tried to steady his breathing, tried to calm his heartbeat into something halfway normal, fingers still tightening every other moment on Arthur's shoulders as the afterglow hit him in waves.. Arthur's head was thrown back, neck bared to Alfred's eyes as he tried to gather himself as well, and when Alfred felt calm enough that he wouldn't just slump to the floor if he moved, he brought his lips to Arthur's neck and laid gentle kisses across the skin, letting his tongue dart out to taste the salt from Arthur's sweat.   
  
“Hmng,” Arthur tried to articulate, dragging one of his hands from where they rested at Alfred's hips, trailing warm fingers up his side and gripping at the back of Alfred's neck. Alfred pulled back a bit and pressed his lips to Arthur's jaw as he lifted himself, groaning just a bit as he felt Arthur slip free.  
  
“I should fire you,” Arthur murmured tiredly, eyes still closed, head still slumped against the back of his chair.  
  
“Why?” Alfred asked, settling a bit more comfortably in Arthur's lap.  
  
“Why the bloody hell _not?_ ” Arthur returned, though there was substantially less heat to his tone than Alfred would have expected five weeks ago. “You are the biggest pain in the arse I have ever had the misfortune of employing, you cannot follow directions, you do not heed warnings, and you talk entirely too much. Not to mention the fact that I'm fairly convinced this is a form of public indecency.”  
  
“To be fair,” Alfred murmured, running his hand down Arthur's chest. “I'm not the only one naked, sir.”  
  
“But it _is_ ,” Arthur argued, finally opening his eyes and tilting his head to look at Alfred, “entirely your fault.”  
  
Alfred admitted silently that this one could probably be blamed mostly on him. He lifted himself up and towered over Arthur until the man had to strain his neck to look up at him, though he kept his face close enough that he could still feel Arthur's heavy breathing. He waited a moment before bringing his hands up to cup either side of Arthur's jaw. “Are you really gonna fire me?” Alfred asked quietly.  
  
“Depends,” Arthur told him.  
  
“On what?” Alfred asked, and was silently delighted when the fingers still gripping his hip tightened.  
  
“Is this incredibly salacious and _improper_ act of debauchery ever going to happen again?” Arthur asked seriously, tone firm.  
  
Alfred thought about it for a moment, eyes not leaving Arthur's, before he let a slow grin spread across his face, thumbs brushing over Arthur's cheeks. He chuckled and tilted his head. “It is highly likely, sir.”  
  
Arthur nodded once. “Then clean this mess up and get back to work,” he said, cheeks pink once more as he gave Alfred's rear a slap. “I've got a bit more editing to finish up and then we can head home.”  
  
Alfred grinned. “Yes, sir.”

**Author's Note:**

> The chapters for this one will be shorter in general, but there's 21 of them so...


End file.
